


For Want Of Sleep

by DictionaryWrites2



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Humor, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 05:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18793930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites2/pseuds/DictionaryWrites2
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have unexpectedly different priorities.





	For Want Of Sleep

It’s a few days after the apocalypse[1], the first time it happens. They’ve been drinking at a comfortable, cosy little bar, the two of them alone together, sharing a bottle of some white wine that Crowley can’t pronounce the name of, but  _loves_. They’re not even that drunk, but when Aziraphale stands up to go, Crowley talks without even thinking, his tongue moving without his permission.

Because Aziraphale says, “You know, I’m actually quite tired. I might even take a short sleep!” and he says it in a sort of cavalier way, but in a hushed tone, as if it’s something  _naughty_ , and Crowley’s heart surges in his chest. There’s been no word from Heaven or Hell in a while: for now, they’re floating in limbo, aware it will all probably go back to normal, but at the moment, they are each without scrutiny.

“Er, you know, you could come home, with me,” he says, trying not to sound as eager as he feels. “Big bed.” The idea enthrals him, all at once: Aziraphale almost  _never_  sleeps, but Crowley knows from a couple of little moments throughout the past few millennia[2] that his body  _radiates_  heat, and the idea of having it next to him while he takes a sleep is  _intoxicating_ , more so even than the wine. Crowley is still a snake, at heart, and Aziraphale picks the most  _unfashionable_  bodies, yes, but they aren’t half-good for insulation: well-padded and encased in wool, and so  _soft_!

Aziraphale blinks at him from drink-unfocused eyes. “Er,” he says. “Would that be… Oh, dear boy, I really don’t think—” He trails off, and Crowley leans back.

“Oh,” he says. “That’s… too much, I s’pose,” he says, trying not to sound disappointed. Aziraphale coughs, and then he draws himself up to his full height, which is still nearly a half-foot shorter than Crowley’s.

“Yes,” he says, sternly. It is let down only slightly by the wine-red flush in his cheeks, and the way he sways just slightly. “Yes, that’s  _far_  too far. Of course, I’ll still walk you home.”

“You don’t need to walk me home, angel,” Crowley says.

“Yes, I do,” Aziraphale says, doing that funny little crinkle of his face, where his nose comes right up, and his lips pout. “There’s still a third of that bottle left, and I’m not letting you drink it all.”

Crowley grins.

They walk the few streets toward Crowley’s flat, leaning heavily on one another, and they share the last of the bottle between them: Crowley tries to toss it into the bottle bank in the car park on the corner, from about twenty feet away. He winces when it shatters loudly, and listens to the quiet  _clunk_  as Aziraphale reconstitutes it and puts it  _inside_  the bottle bank, rather than on the outside. When he opens his eyes[3], he sees that the carpet of broken glass that naturally surrounds these little islands has  _also_  disappeared, likely placed into their colour-coordinated banks. There’s also a new mural on the wall, of a bird singing.

“You always have to take it and  _run_  with it, don’t you?” he asks, with more scorn than he feels.

Aziraphale smiles beatifically, and says, “I don’t know what you mean.”

He walks Crowley right up to the door, and then hesitates. Crowley looks at his face, at the uncertainty that shows on Aziraphale’s funny, pudgy features, and he clears his throat, leaning on the door to open it.

He doesn’t say anything. He feels like if he said something, he would ruin it: he just leans on the door, leans into the building, and kind of waits for a second, for Aziraphale to follow him. After a long moment of what looks like desperate deliberation, Aziraphale does, and Crowley has to prevent himself from  _squirming_  with excitement. It’s been  _years_  since he slept with someone else in his bed, years on years, and he really does miss the way it used to be, where you could sleep in close contact with other people, and no one batted an eye…

Ah, well.

 _Humans_.

They come into the flat, and Crowley hangs up their coats as Aziraphale stands awkwardly in his living room, absently stroking the wide leaves of a  _Dracaena fragrans_ , the plant shivering under his touch. It had better not get any  _ideas_.

They move into the bedroom, and Crowley doesn’t even think about it, snaps his fingers and puts himself into his pyjamas. They’re  _good_  pyjamas, too – black silk, soft and sleek and cool against his skin – and he thinks he actually  _has_  a set of Aziraphale’s pyjamas from that business in ’25, where—

Aziraphale’s hand is on his shoulder, and Crowley turns. “Angel, I think I still have your—”

And then Aziraphale’s mouth is on Crowley’s mouth, one of his plump, pretty hands is curled tightly in his hair, and the  _other_  one, the  _other_  of Aziraphale’s elegant hands, is grabbing at his  _arse_ , even as he crowds Crowley up against the edge of the bed.

“ _Oh_ ,” Crowley says when they break apart, his head spinning.

“Oh?” Aziraphale repeats, even as he hurriedly undoes the buttons of his waistcoat. This is…  _unexpected_. He didn’t even know the angel  _thought_  about sex, let alone that he’d be interested in giving it a try. It’s one of those vices that Crowley likes, but doesn’t often bother with himself – not because it isn’t pleasant, because it  _is_ , but simply because all the other people involve sometimes get a bit complicated, or difficult to choreograph. Oh, don’t get him wrong, sex can be useful in his line of work: the right blowjob here, the right seduction there, even just enticing a group with the right kiss on the right mouth, but you know, it’s all about the right  _company_ , isn’t it? He’s  _tried_  pretty much everything under the sun, at least once or twice, just to make sure he’s covering all angles, but sex just isn’t satisfying in the way that sleep is, or in the way a good meal is. Angels and demons do have  _drives_ , when they inhabit human bodies, but they’re usually distant, as if you’re feeling them through a screen. Crowley has long suspected Aziraphale actually feels things more than he does himself, but sex? Well.

Sex had always seemed like  _distinctly_  unangelic territory.

But—

Well.

It’s not like it’s  _unwelcome_. He likes Aziraphale, and he’s willing to go along with it, especially if they can sleep afterwards.

\--

“You’re a  _demon_ ,” Crowley mumbles into the pillow, sprawled on his belly and entirely unable to move. He’s  _soaked_  with sweat, and his whole body is aching distantly, suffused with the pleasant stiffness of muscle that accompanies a long session of sex. And  _long_  is right.

“I am  _not_ ,” Aziraphale says, with a playful smack against his thigh: Crowley’s skin  _sings_.

They got back in at a little past one o’clock, and now, the sun is rising.

“Are you  _tired_?” Aziraphale asks, his soft fingers tracing down the line of Crowley’s spine, pressing down slightly, and Crowley grunts at the wondrous heat his touch leaves in its wake, making his body tingle. “Because,” he continues, and the finger slides between the cleft of Crowley’s buttocks, and Crowley groans.

“ _Angel_ ,” he says plaintively.

“Hm?” He sounds so innocent! The finger presses down, and Crowley chokes.

“ _Angel_ , lie down,” Crowley groans.

“On our sides?”

“On your back.” He miracles the sweat from his naked body, and he doesn’t even bother to put his pyjamas back on, just slides on top of Aziraphale and drops heavy over the comfortable pillow of his chest and belly, closing his eyes. “We are  _sleeping_.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says.

“Oh?” Crowley repeats pointedly.

He falls asleep blanketing the angel’s chest, just like that, and it’s  _wonderful_ , better than he could have dreamed: Aziraphale’s heart beats regularly beneath Crowley’s cheek, his chest the perfect pillow, warm and yielding even where it rises and falls with the angel’s breaths, and he lets himself melt in his place.

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmurs against his hair, softly, his hand resting comfortably on the back of Crowley’s thigh, “you wicked thing.”

Sleepily, Crowley smiles.

\--

The second time is a few weeks later.

Crowley comes into the bookshop through the back window, slithering in where it’s slightly ajar, and when he slides into the backroom, Aziraphale has a biography of Wodehouse open in one hand, and is leaning back in his armchair, sipping idly at a cup of tea.

His lap, Crowley notes, is the  _epitome_  of free real estate: warm, open, and decorated horribly, but the latter could probably be remedied. He slides forward, and instead of bothering with a traditional greeting, deposits himself on the angel’s thighs, leaning forward and putting his head in the crook of Aziraphale’s shoulder, sliding into place in such a way as to not disturb his knee.

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale chides, but his cheeks begin to flush, and he doesn’t let out any noise of complaint. This sort of thing, Crowley knows, isn’t part of the Arrangement, but things are  _different_  now, and he’s warm.

“G’morning,” Crowley mumbles against Aziraphale’s neck. He watches with one lazy, suspicious eye as Aziraphale sets his cup of tea aside, and marks his page with a bookmark[4], but then Aziraphale leans, tilting Crowley’s head to meet his, and kisses him. It’s slower than it had been before, less urgent, but he still  _kisses_ , his hand sliding slowly into the waistband of his trousers.

 _Oh_.

\--

The third time, Crowley is already naked, sprawled on his belly like a starfish, and Aziraphale lets himself into the flat. It’s a little past one in the afternoon, but Crowley has no intention of rising until at least this time tomorrow, and he barely stirs as Aziraphale comes in.

“C’mere, angel,” Crowley says. “Take off your coat.”

“I hung it up, dear,” Aziraphale replies, but Crowley hears the noise through a haze of sleepy wakefulness as he takes off his shoes and puts his clothes aside: he feels the mattress decline slightly, and he reaches loosely out with his left hand for Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale’s fingers intertwine with his at the same time as his mouth touches Crowley’s skin, licking up, and suddenly Crowley is wide awake and  _moaning_. They don’t get to sleep again for  _hours_.

\--

The fourth time, Crowley loses it.

Aziraphale’s hand had been reaching between his thighs, but Crowley grabs his wrist and wrenches it above his head, moving to pin the angel’s hands above his head and stop him from moving. The angel’s eyes widen, his lips parting, and Crowley sees the unmistakable flush rush over his cheeks. “Oh,” Aziraphale says breathlessly. “Very well, dear boy, let’s—”

“ _No!”_  Crowley snaps, dragging his hands back and pressing them to Aziraphale’s still-clothed chest instead. “No, no,  _no_ , angel, it’s— I won’t have it anymore. I  _won’t_. I like sex, Aziraphale, I like sex a lot, and I like sex with you, but I’m not trying to fuck you every time I crawl into your lap or get you into bed with me! I just want to  _sleep!”_

Toward the end, his indignant growl becomes more of a plaintive whine, and Aziraphale peers at him, his eyes wide, his lips parted in surprise.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says softly, his eyebrows shifting up in disappointed uncertainty. “Oh, my dear, I am sorry, I didn’t… I thought you wanted—”

“I like it,” Crowley repeats. “Just— If I’m already in bed, I probably just want to sleep. Unless I start kissing you or something, if I get into your lap, I just want to leech your heat. You’d be furious, wouldn’t you, if I tried to come bother you while you were buried in an important book?”

Aziraphale’s lip twitches, and he gently pats the side of Crowley’s hip, his gaze flitting down. “I’ve been rather overeager with you, I suppose.”

“You could be overeager with me now,” Crowley mutters. Aziraphale inhales, and Crowley shivers as Aziraphale’s fingers slide slowly up to his shirt, beginning to unbutton it. Crowley yawns, his jaw opening wider than a real human’s might, before he says, “You could… while I was sleeping. Another time. I wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh, you beast, I could never,” Aziraphale says, in a tight, hotly excited voice, and then he leans, brushing his lips against Crowley's chest. “Oh, have I been dreadful to you, my dear? Demanding all this sex of you?”

“No,” Crowley mumbles, his eyes closing as he tips his head back, lazily grinding his hips down against Aziraphale’s, arching up and into his mouth. “Mm.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, and he kisses the space between Crowley’s pecs, but then summons a thick blanket about his shoulders, drawing Crowley up against his chest. “You sleep, my dear, and I shall reduce you to a quivering wreck once you wake, hm?”

“L’ve you, ‘Zirafel,” Crowley mumbles against Aziraphale’s neck, his eyes closing shut as Aziraphale draws him against his neck.

“I love you too, my dear,” the angel murmurs, and Crowley lets himself drift into sleep.

 

[1] That is to say, the apocalypse didn’t  _happen_ , but the end of days sort of retains its status as the end of days in one’s mind even when it wasn’t actually, per se, the end of days.

[2] Both of these “little moments” had been fuelled entirely by wine, but that’s to be expected.

[3] In the dark, his sunglasses are perched in the black crop of his hair, and his night vision is  _very_  good.

[4] It’s made of tartan cloth, and has golden tassels. Crowley hates it on principle.


End file.
